


Flying Commercial

by MONANIK



Series: Meet-ugly oneshots [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Based on a Tumblr Post, Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Comfort, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Fear of Flying, Fluff and Humor, Keith is in the military, Keith is understanding, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance panics, M/M, Meet-Cute, Meet-Ugly, Panic Attacks, Pining Lance (Voltron), Soft Keith (Voltron), mentions of vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 19:35:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19091689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MONANIK/pseuds/MONANIK
Summary: This is a five-hour-long plane ride, they're sitting together, and Lance is deathly afraid of flying.A meet-cute but it's meet ugly.





	Flying Commercial

**Author's Note:**

> Will probably make a short series of oneshots for these Meet-ugly prompts I found on Tumblr. 
> 
> Credit to tokiosunset for the prompt. 
> 
> Enjoy!

He wouldn’t freak out. Adults don’t freak out from flying. And Lance was an adult now. _Yup. Definitely._

 

It’d taken Hunk and Pidge a full week to convince him to get on one of those metallic death-birds. After countless of videos on how unlikely the event of  a crash landing is and how statistically safe it truly is to travel by plane, after countless of hours spent convincing him on how _“It’s much safer and faster!”,_ he finally yielded and dejectedly decided that it was, perhaps, better for them all this way.

 

It had been half a year since he’d last seen his favorite duo, with Pidge and Hunk both getting accepted into Caltech and him getting progressively more busy with handling his day-to-day life as a part-time lifeguard in Orlando—hustling between work and applications—they ended having little to no room to catch up. When the duo got the news from Allura that he’d been accepted into Chapman they’d immediately insisted on his visit for a celebratory week down at Long Beach.

 

He couldn’t say no to such a genuine show of pride from his dearest friends, and it had been a while since they’d last seen, so with his gut in his throat he accepted their offer, packed his shit, and ran off to the cursed hellport—sorry, _airport_.

 

Caged on the other side of the full-length windows lining the inner corridor stood parked a number of those death-machines—some lined up, some taking off. Above him a too-chipper-considering-her-job lady loudly announced through insufferable static that flight 2142, heading for Long Beach Airport, California, was ready for boarding. In time with her, as though on cue, his phone chimed from inside his pocket, further worsening his anxiety by loudly confirming that his flight was—indeed—ready for boarding and that if he didn’t hurry up, he’d throw money down the drain.

 

Oh, right. _Did Lance mention that he’s terrified of flying?_

He took a deep breath and willed his legs to move. With heavy steps he treaded the hectic swarm of people, and even managed to snatch an overpriced croissant along the way—to his gut’s dismay. He was hoping the sweet, wallet-killer pastry would suffice as a temporary distraction, but it only worked to further fuel his nausea.

 

 _Classic._ He thought, bitterly, as the cold air from outside hit flaming cheeks and a sweat-beaded forehead. Chestnut locks fluttered in the high wind, and his scrawny legs wobbled terribly as he made his was down the metallic stairs and through the tunnel connecting to the airplane. _He was doing it. He was actually doing it._

 

Lance couldn’t for the life of him remember the last time he’d flown anywhere. Perhaps I’d been when he first moved to the US with his family. The stench of sweaty people crammed into a confined space for hours mingled heavily with the smell of leather seats and plastic, and Lance remembered it all as though it were yesterday.

 

Except it wasn’t yesterday. It was today, and he was once again drowned in that same stench as he ducked his way forward, frantically looking for his seat with sweaty, shaky hands. Clutching onto his phone as though it were a lifeline, half expecting it to scold him with a loud: _“You’re crushing me!”._

With blurry vision, and quivering thighs, he blindly sat down on the seat closest to the tiny window, overlooking a portion of the left wing and the pavement below. _Oh, sweet pavement._ Lance already missed the safety and stability of a firm ground below his feet. He gulped, trying to still the bounce in his long legs—since they kept hitting the seat in front repeatedly and eventually dragged out a displeased look from the lady sitting in it.

 

_It’s OK. You’ve got this!_

 

He didn’t get it. He definitely didn’t get it, if the churning in his stomach and the clump in his throat was anything to go by. His hands were now shaking so badly he could barely hold his phone still enough to read the handful of messages he’d received from a worried but supportive Allura and a pair of giddy friends, awaiting his arrival, wishing him luck and hoping to see him soon—preferably in one peace, according to Pidge.

_The winky-face certainly didn’t help, Pidge._

 

Turning on airplane mode—not thrusting his fingers to type—he tried relaxing into his stiff, poorly-curved seat only to find the squeak of the leather too loud and the stale stench too strong to ignore. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe, to will the clump of breakfast in his throat to go back to where it belongs. Last thing he needed was to give the grumpy mom in front yet another reason to want to sue his ass.

 

A few breaths later he gave up and dove instead forward, his eyes shut closed firmly, and grabbed blindly for the puke-bag he knew they kept in the little net on the back of each seat. But instead of his fingers curling into clear plastic they met hairy, firm skin.

 

He shot his eyes open, half expecting some angry dad to sock him in the nose but found instead his hand clenched around a guy’s firm left arm. In his half-aware, panic-flooded brain he managed to register a black-leather clock and a silver ring around a calloused pointer finger before his unevolved brain finally processed what was going on.

 

“Uh…?” he heard a deep, raspy syllable leave the stranger’s lips, rightfully confused by Lance’s action.

 

He ripped his hand away and started fumbling, searching in his frenzied state for the right English words for an apology, but stopped instead dead in his tracks when he finally looked up.

 

The man sitting next to him was downright _gorgeous._ Pale skin in contrast to rich, black hair that fell in messy strands past a pierced ear and down to his shoulder. He was broad and slim all at once, much the same way a leopard is, and his eyes— _Christ._ Lance found himself locked on a set of matching nebulas in all the shades of blue and violet before his brain abruptly decided to provide him the unfortunate reality of _You look and smell like death and you also really, really need to vomit._

 

 _Of course_ he would meet the man of every wet dream there is on the one day he looked like hell and felt even worse. _Of course._

 

“I’m— uh—I’m sorr—I didn’t—!” he stammered, hand on his mouth to keep from further ruining this sex-dream’s image of him. Those skinny black jeans and fresh kicks didn’t look too keen on welcoming a warm pile of vomit.

 

And then, as though God took pity on him, his suffering eased if even just a fraction, because the beauty next to him _chuckled._

“It’s OK, I can see that you’re practically dying.” He said, smirking, “First time?”

 

Lance shook his head, hand still on his mouth, before he realized it would suffice to answer verbally like an adult. He swallowed down the bile, wincing at the burn in his throat, and croaked, “No, not really,” to the amused man.

 

He regarded him worriedly for a moment, before reaching down and handing Lance the puke-bag so he could heave into it. A gentle hand barely brushed his right shoulder, hesitant to offer such a level to comfort to a stranger. The beau squeezed once before letting his arm fall back on the armrest between them.

 

His right hand went to adjust the tightness of the belt around his hips as he spoke, “I’m Keith, by the way,” he said, “I assume you’ll want some company?”

 

 _Keith._ Huh. He gave him his name…

 

_He gave you his name! Answer!_

 

Reluctantly parting from the safety off his puke-bag, he tried for a wobbly, probably sickly smile.

 

“The name’s Lance,” he said.

 

Keith smiled, and opened his mouth as if to say something, but before he could he was interrupted by an ungodly screech from Lance when the thrusters below roared to life and made the entire seat vibrate with its power. _What if it was malfunctioning? Planes malfunction before take-off, right? Oh God, what if it explodes before they’re even airborne?_

 

“Hey! Hey! It’s OK, relax, dude!” he could hear Keith urging, shaking Lance firmly by the shoulders to bring him back down from his panicked state.

 

Once more, his primitive brain got the better of him and he lunged forward, only this time he’d meant to hit firm human rather than plastic bag. He buried his nose in Keith’s collarbone and shut his eyes in absolute terror as he felt the sudden lift from below, signaling that they were airborne. His guts seemed to float too high and rearrange themselves for a moment and he wanted to throw up.

 

He tightened his hold and decided instead to focus on how good Keith smelled and how comforting his firm chest was against—

 

_Fuck!_

He ripped himself away from a severely shocked Keith. Or—well— _tried to,_ only for Keith’s arms to pull him back in and wrap awkwardly around his shoulders.

 

“It’s OK,” he said from somewhere above Lance’s clogged ears, his voice a distant murmur drowning in the hum of the engines and the roar of children and people talking loudly around them, “I get it, it’s OK,” he continued, unknowingly stilling the frenzy that was Lance’s heart.

 

If the flight doesn’t kill him, cardiac arrest surely will. Whether from the sheer panic attack he’s having or from the jittery feeling of being held in the arms of a gorgeous person like Keith. He could feel the press of cold medal against his cheek and realized half-aware that it was the dog-tag hanging off his neck. For some reason the thought warmed him. Every muscle relaxed and drooped, and where his fists had preciously been clenching the fabric of Keith’s shirt they now loosened and let go.

 

He coughed into his fist, awkwardly, and found his interest suddenly peaked by the loose screw on the food-holder in front of him. In his peripheral he could make out the silhouette of Keith’s arm coming up to comb through black hair. _He had to say something, anything!_ They would be spending at least five hours right next to each other, and Lance would not let himself be remembered as the weird, puke-y dude whose first instinct had been to assault Keith in a way-too-friendly hug barely a minute after telling him his name.

 

He turned and was about to apologize when Keith spoke up as well.

 

“I’m sorry I’m s—”, “Sorry if that wa—"

 

They stopped and blinked at each other for a moment before bursting into gleeful laughter, earning themselves a handful of hisses of _“Shut up!”_ and _“Shh!”._ In that moment of bliss, he distantly noted the absence of vomit in his throat, and the clearness of his vision. The lady in front of him sat still in her seat.

 

 

-

 

The flight out to Cali would go down as Lance’s favorite flight ever.

 

Keith turned out to be surprisingly friendly. A little quiet and distant at first, but he warmed up to Lance. Lance’s alien icebreaker of hugging the life out of him was perhaps part of the reason why. Regardless, he told Lance that he understood and proceeded to keep him preoccupied the entire flight. Turns out Keith was a crazy crime and horror fan, so they spent a good portion of their flight watching stupid documentaries and ghost-hunting videos, laughing and chatting.

 

He found out that Keith was in the military, currently training to become a fighter pilot, and that he’d been to Cuba and had fallen in love with their cuisine. He discovered that Keith has an adorable German shepherd called Cosmo waiting for him at home, and that he was flying out to meet his birthmother for the first time.

 

In turn, Lance told him everything about Hunk and Pidge and Cuba and marveled at the interest in Keith’s eyes as he told him about his passion for medicine and lifeguarding. To which he proceeded to laugh, _“You’re a lifeguard but you piss yourself at the mere prospect of flying commercial?”._

 

And so, their hours flew by, and if Lance leaned a little too much into him the entire time, and casually managed to get his number for more “Cosmo pictures”—so be it.

 

Maybe flying wasn’t so bad after all.

 

 

 


End file.
